Adamat smoothed the front of his jacket. “It was a very nasty fall. He tumbled two flights before we could catch him.”
“I believe that was the case,” Tamas said. “Doctor, what could you prescribe for Charlemund?”
The doctor looked down his nose at the unconscious form of the arch-diocel. “Arsenic?”
“Now, really. Something to give him a quality headache and a great deal of memory loss.”
“Cyanide.”
“Doctor!”
“I’ll find something,” the doctor mumbled.
“Olem.”
Olem paused, his arms beneath Charlemund’s shoulders as he dragged him from the room. “Sir?”
“What was that bit about the men scuffling with Charlemund’s guards?”
“I was going to tell you sir, after the surgery.”
“I’m sure you were. What happened?”
Olem paused with his hands under Charlemund’s arms. “Just that, sir. The boys don’t want to lose Mihali. Say he’s a good-luck charm, cooking or not. I had nothing to do with it. At least, not too much.”
“How the pit is he a good-luck charm? What has he done to warrant that?”
“Filled their bellies,” Olem said.
“Were there any casualties?”
“There might be next time.” A cloud passed across Olem’s face.
“And if I give a direct order?”
Olem looked down. “I’m sure the men will follow it, sir.”
Tamas closed his eyes and rubbed them. “What do you suggest, Inspector?”
Adamat started. “I’m not sure I know enough details, sir.” He felt like a fly on the wall here. This was not an event he was meant to witness. This Mihali character – Adamat would need to find out more about him.
“Pretend you do,” Tamas insisted.
“It’s a poor commander who gives in to the whims of his troops,” Adamat said. “And an even worse one who ignores their wants and needs. Yet there are mitigating factors.” He jerked his head toward the arch-diocel, whom Olem had resumed dragging out the door.
“Olem.”
The bodyguard paused once more. “He’s coming around, sir.”
“I’d rather he not yet.”
There was a sound like a hammer hitting meat. “He won’t.”
Tamas put his head in his hands. “Let it be known that Mihali has been conscripted by the seventh brigade of the Adran army. Send a note to Hassenbur, letting them know they may send a doctor to watch over him. We will cover all expenses, and Claremonte will be spared any embarrassment.”
“And the Church?”
Tamas sighed. “They can send a priest to talk to him, if they like. To convert him or some such nonsense.”
“So Mihali is the legion’s official cook now, eh?”
“Chef.”
“Right, sir. Thank you, sir.”
Tamas waited until the soldier was gone to begin eating his broth. A few moments passed, the only sound that of his satisfied slurping. He looked up. “Inspector?”
“Yes?” Adamat had found his mind wandering again.
“You’re dismissed.”
As Adamat left the room, he heard Tamas say, “Let’s get on with this, Petrik.”
He paused in the hallway. Tamas handled that well enough. The field marshal was not a man to tolerate fools questioning his orders. He was not a good man to cross. Adamat wondered again if he should tell Tamas about Lord Vetas. If Tamas discovered Adamat’s betrayal on his own, Adamat would lose any chance of rescuing his family. But if Adamat attempted a rescue, even with the help of Tamas’s soldiers, his family might die. The risk was just too great.
Chapter 28
“Come on, you idiot,” Tamas said. “Prop me up. Put the pillow there.” He paused and gripped the edge of his desk as the room spun around him.
“Sir?” Olem said. He chewed on the end of his cigarette.
“I’m fine. Go on.”
Olem wedged a cushion between Tamas and his chair.
“Down farther,” Tamas said. “Perfect. Turn the chair a little. I want to look casual.”
Tamas gave a few more orders until he was satisfied. He sat behind his desk, pointed toward the office door, his back propped up straight so he looked taller. Olem stepped back.
“Do I look like an invalid?” Tamas asked.
“No.”
“You hesitated.”
“A little beat up, sir,” Olem said. “It’ll do.”
“Good.” Tamas didn’t dare lean forward, hardly even to look down, so he felt blindly to a desk drawer and removed a powder cartridge. He broke the end with his thumbnail and poured it out on his tongue. He fought off a bout of dizziness, then darkness as his consciousness tried to retreat before the wave of awareness that flooded his senses. The taste was sulfuric, bitter. To Tamas it tasted of ambrosia.
His exhaustion ebbed. The pain in his leg receded to a steady hum in the back of his mind, a simple reminder that his leg had been cut open, the flesh torn and the bone reset but without the agony that should accompany it.
“Three capsules in an hour, sir?” There was a hint of worry in Olem’s voice.
“Save it for someone else,” Tamas grunted. “I’ve no time to worry about going powder blind.” Truth be told, he admitted to himself, the euphoria of the powder trance clung to him. He needed it, longed for its strongest embrace like a long-absent lover. He would deal with signs of addiction later. For now, there were more important matters. Despite the powder trance, one of the deepest he’d ever been in, he could barely move. His body still felt the pain, still cried out over his lack of rest – his brain simply did not register it.
“Tell me about Brigadier Sabastenien,” Tamas said.
“He was an orphan,” Olem said, “adopted into the Wings of Adom as a bullet-boy. The Wings of Adom are his family – Adro his mother, the army his father.”
“As I’ve heard as well.”
“He helped me track you,” Olem said. “Ryze’s betrayal burned him deep.”
“Does he know Ryze is dead?” Tamas asked.
Olem shook his head.
“And you didn’t say a word of Ryze’s innocence?”
“Not one, sir,” Olem said.
“Good. Send him in.”
Brigadier Sabastenien was one of the youngest commanders of the Wings of Adom, barely twenty-five years old. Tamas knew that brigadiers were not elected at whim. They were quick, they were intelligent, brave, and fanatically loyal to the Winceslav family and to Adro. Or they had been, until Brigadier Barat.
Brigadier Sabastenien was a shorter man, with dark, unruly hair cut just above his eyes. He had grown muttonchops to give him a better appearance of maturity, and wore them better than most men of his age.
“I’m glad to see you back in good health, sir,” Sabastenien said.
“Thank you,” Tamas said. “I understand you helped Olem track me.” Tamas nodded to his bodyguard, and then dismissed him with a jerk of his head. Olem slipped out onto the balcony, while Tamas’s head reeled from the sudden movement. Careful, he reminded himself.
“I provided what service I could,” the brigadier said. “Pray tell me if there is more I can do. I’ve already begun gathering men to hunt Brigadier Ryze with Lady Winceslav’s blessing. He’ll not escape.”
“There is one thing you can do,” Tamas said.
“Anything, sir.”
“It’s a small thing. You see that screen there?” Tamas pointed toward the corner of the room, where a divider stood of the type a man or woman might change behind. “I’d like you to stand behind it and listen.”
“Sir?” Sabastenien said.
“You’ll understand soon enough,” Tamas said. “Please. For the whim of a beat-up old man.”
Brigadier Sabastenien gave him a hesitant nod. “Now?”
Tamas glanced at the clock. “Yes, that would be about right.”
Sabastenien positioned himself behind the curtain. A few moments passed, during which Tamas closed his eyes. His mind, though blocked off from the pain and weariness that would have rendered a man unconscious, still spun from the powder trance. Eyes open, he could see Olem out on the balcony, watching the birds fly in the sun over Elections Square. He could see stray fibers on Olem’s jacket, and when he concentrated, he thought he could even hear the beat of Sabastenien’s heart from where he hid behind the curtain. The young brigadier was calm.